Jared
White lives in Brooklyn where he is the co-owner of Berl's Brooklyn PoetryShop, a small press poetry bookstore, and the co-curator of Yardmeter
Editions, an event series. He is the author of the chapbook YELLOWCAKE,
published as part of the Narwhal anthology from Cannibal Books in 2009. His
recent poems have appeared in journals such as Sink Review, Esque, Coconut,
Harp & Altar, No Dear, We Are So Happy To Know Something, and on the Flying
Object web site. His blog is jaredswhite.blogspot.com.

Dan
Magers’s first book of poems, Partyknife, is
published by Birds, LLC.
He is co-founder and co-editor of Sink Review,
an online poetry journal, founder and editor of Immaculate Disciples Press,
a handmade chapbook press focused on poetry and visual arts
collaborations. He lives in Brooklyn.

Saturday, September 1, 2012

Jared
Stanley: Hi Laura, did you see the weird sun this morning?
Did we talk about poetry when we carpooled yesterday? Did Blake come up as we
got into the Tahoe Basin? How's that?

Laura
Wetherington: I did not see the weird sun the sun the sun.
I did see weird clouds—weird in that they were clouds and this is Nevada and
not Ann Arbor or Seattle. And then the sunset that went along with it. It was
cherub-worthy. Blakeian.

Been reading some Blake. Trying to figure out his
deal. I was reading parts of The Marriage of Heaven and Hell yesterday,
which made me think about difficulty in poetry. How much deciphering tone is
like deciphering anything in an opaque text. Context is everything. Like Eric
Zboya has an algorhithmic translation of Mallarme's Un Coup de Des, and
without his postscript talking about the 3D nature of his ink blots, how they
match the texture in the original poem, I would have missed all that depth.

Anyway, speaking of cherub-worthy sunsets and
Blake, didn't we see a cross in the sky on our commute? Or what did we see? And
you talked some about the cover of your new book? Can you say more about that
picture on the cover?

JS:
I guess "What did we see" is basically an animating principle for art
- one ventures a guess, and gets into a kind of humility by acknowledging that
an answer to such a question is always a bit tentative, murky, 'endarkend'.

That's what the cover of "The Weeds" is
about too–- it's a photograph by a great friend, the artist Gabie Strong. The
photo's called "Untitled (Mystic Truth)". A photograph of two
contrails crossing to form an X in a desert sky. In one sense, it's crossing
god out of the sky, or providing a location to look for something to believe
in— 'x marks the spot' and all that. But because this huge X in the sky is the
result of technology, it presents a kind of awesome paradox. Strong and I
are both pretty in love with the mystic, occult aspects of the military
industrial complex—the way technology is put to irrational ends despite all the
kind of rational thought required to make them happen, and the way that so many
of us don't stop to read these 'signs and wonders' for what they truly are -
atavistic rituals of purification, or the worship of raw power. And things like
contrails are just so powerful—they connote our absolute dominion over the
earth. One feels both horror and pride, because, as a popular Berkeley bumper
sticker of the 80's used to say, "Nature Bats Last."

I also like that it's photography, and subject to
chance, and luck, and human pattern making—you write "We cannot get away
from the way our minds solidify", yet by the end of a poem "and then
a sea change"— poems and patterns and everyone - say more...

LW:
You're talking about the title poem of the book. When I think about minds
solidifying, of course it's a metaphorical thing--getting in a rut, whatnot—but
it's also an anatomical idea—that our brain accumulates deposits, or buildup of
other outside materials that slows down and deteriorates our processes. It's a
relationship between content and form. We're living it.

There's also a partner-line to the one you
mentioned: "We choose into what we cannot get out of:/the way we hold our
bodies." I studied bodywork and massage for a number of years, so I think
about the body a lot. We develop soft tissue defenses in response to injury
(scar tissue). It impedes movement and changes the way we hold ourselves
upright. Our bodies become maps of our lives in that way. That's why every
person's gait is so fascinating—we're each a walking atlas of our pasts. I think
about patterns in terms of the body (patterns of movement, the body as a
complex system) and that seems inextricable from some kind of one-to-one
correspondence with patterns of mind. Like we have those same deposits of scar
tissue in our thinking.

Scar tissue (in a real sense or in a metaphorical
sense) seems to be an aberration from the natural patterning of our bodies—it's
chaos compared to the smooth lines of muscle fibers. This, oddly, brings me to
poetry, because I'm interested in what it means for a work to exist arrhythmically,
or atonally. It seems to me that chance operations show us that we're always
working within a set of natural forms or rules. One can't get outside of
rhythm—one can only introduce unfamiliar patterns (sea changes, perhaps).

How 'bout you, friend? How do you think about the
music of a poem, the rhythm of your writing? What patterns are you following or
working against? (I think of a moment like "All along the orange
Chesapeake water/hypoxic color the color of the morning's first/slow-handed cup
of coffee..." with all its visual and aural alliteration...)

JS:
Yes, to bodywork, and to the idea of reading a person's history in a gait -
that is the most amazing melding of time, damage and physicality I've heard in
awhile. Wow! I'm a little afraid of what my gait communicated the first time we
met!

I'm especially interested in your description of
the scars of a lifetime as aberrant – automatically this brings me to the
parallel scars that both Ahab and the whale carry— that their motives are
physical, almost allegories – maybe scars are notches of time?

And, just as scars mark time on a person's body, I
have this great desire to keep the act of reading physical— to mark time on the
body in rhythm. Poems are a good medium for physicality in writing, because
they foreground all those material parts of language. I like to imagine my
poems as workouts regimens for the vocal cords, the tongue, and the mouth—to
yoke phonemes together, to make a line 'chunky' - I want it to feel as though a
reader is chewing on something when reading one of my poems aloud—I write them
to be read aloud, and I revise strictly by ear. Keeping things physical.

So, that line you quoted: 'hypoxic color the color
of the morning's first" - the line is an agglomeration of iambs, trochees
and anapests, and is actually trying to resist falling into a repetition of any
of these feet—the line is hard to pronounce, and that difficulty of saying, I
hope, reminds the reader of some unused muscles in the neck, some unfamiliar
shape the tongue might take. So that a strangeness of poetry is not just
conceptual. It's physical. Sometimes I like to touch my face and neck when
revising a poem—asking with my hand, 'does my body have to work hard to say
this?'—It is an attempt to create a unity between the poem's construction and
the reader's muscles.

Jared Stanley is the author of The Weeds,Book Made of Forest and four
chapbooks, including How the Desert Did Me In. He co-edits Mrs. Maybe, and is a member of
the art collective Unmanned Minerals. He is a 2012-2014 Research Fellow at the
Center for Art + Environment at the Nevada Museum of Art, and teaches at
Sierra Nevada College. Stanley lives in Reno, Nevada.

She co-founded and co-edits textsound.org (www.textsound.org) with Anna Vitale. Wetherington lives in Nevada, where she
teaches creative writing at Sierra Nevada College and is at work on a series of
fake translations.